The Sycamore grows branches for crows’ nests.
The harvest starts in April, and the hiding not
long after that. The Crepe Myrtle is starting to
blossom honey leaves.
Today I caught an Eastern Grey Squirrel foraging in my lilacs.
I’d like to think it was a stop to smell the roses moment, a
cultured creature admiring the lilac’s fleeting
life and intoxicating fragrance,
like the Star Jasmine I encounter on my walks. I bury my
face in its blossoms, and take a deep breath.
My dog smells the roots of the Sycamore, then makes his mark.
There. There’s another bird song I don’t know.